Something Sinful (15 page)

Laughing, Charlemagne took the seat opposite his brother. “It’s a good play. You’re actually rather Prospero-like yourself, don’t you think? Magically manipulating events to follow the track you think they should?”

“Yes, but that’s supposed to be a secret.” The duke unfolded the morning edition of the
Times
and nudged it at Charlemagne. “Have you seen this?”

“What?” Taking a bite of toast, Charlemagne turned the paper to face him—and nearly choked.

“You didn’t know, then.”

“How was I supposed to know?” He read the headline and the caption beneath it again, thinking he must have misinterpreted. “‘Ship’s Captain Missing; Foul Play Is Feared in the Disappearance of Peter Blink, Captain of the
Wayward.
’ Christ.”

“He was the one from whom you purchased the silk, wasn’t he?”

He
would
have bought the silks from Blink, if Sarala hadn’t beaten him to it. But very few people knew he’d been outmaneuvered. Like Melbourne, most thought him the owner of the shipment.
Good God.
Ice crept into his chest. It couldn’t be connected to the silks. He was overreacting. “Yes, that was Blink,” he answered when he realized Melbourne was still gazing at him.

“Could he have gone on a drunk? He is a sea captain. It’s not all that uncommon for his ilk, I believe.”

“I suppose so,” Charlemagne returned, glancing through the article. “Does this say who reported him missing?”

“His first mate. Apparently they were supposed to set sail for the Mediterranean on Monday, but he never appeared to supervise the resupply or pay the port fees.”

That wasn’t like Blink. The man had a definite eye for opportunity, but he wasn’t careless. “I wonder,” he said slowly.

“Wonder what?”

“Well, it’s just so odd, and it puts me in mind of the attempted break-in at my house, and that feeling I had the other night, about—”

“Good morning, Papa.” Penelope pranced into the breakfast room. “Good morning, Uncle Shay. What feeling did you have?”

Charlemagne hid a scowl as he leaned over to kiss his niece’s cheek. “A feeling of cold wet trickling down my back because I got caught in the rain.”

She made a face. “Yuck. It’s not going to rain today, is it?”

“I don’t believe so, Peep. Why do you ask?”

She filled a plate to overflowing with grapes and set it down beside her father. “Because I am going to give you another chance to take me to the museum today. Amelia Harper said that one of the mummies looked at her. I think she’s silly, but I need evidence.”

He needed to do a little investigating, himself—mainly to make certain that nothing…odd had occurred around Sarala. Thin as the connection between a missing sea captain and an attack on the house of his last known client might be, he’d made more than one deal based on even thinner leads. That silk was supposed to be his, and if any of this was connected, he wanted to know about it. “May I take you this afternoon?” he suggested.

“Yes, you may.”

Charlemagne took a few quick bites of toast and then pushed away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to run.”

“A moment, Shay.” Sebastian stood, as well. “Penelope, don’t let Stanton clear my plate.”

“I’ll guard it, Papa.”

Charlemagne followed his brother into the morning room next door. “What is it?”

“Your feeling. You think this Blink’s disappearance is connected to your silk purchase, don’t you?”

“I’m not certain. I’ve just had an odd feeling about this entire business.” A feeling that had become irrevocably wrapped into visions of India and a black-haired princess with moss green eyes.

“Then you need to sell them. Now.”

Technically, he was still trying to obtain them in the first place. “No one’s ever intimidated me into anything,” he returned. “And at the moment all I have is a very loose chain of coincidence.”

“I don’t like it, Shay.”

“I don’t, either.” If this had somehow put Sarala in danger…He needed to find out. “I’ll let you know.”

“Make it fast.”

“Don’t worry, Seb. It’s probably nothing.”

His brother nodded. “It’s the ‘probably’ part that has me concerned.”

Shay had Jaunty saddled and then rode to Carlisle House. A note would probably have worked just as well, and alarmed her less, but damn it, he wanted to see her. There. Might as well admit it, because denial certainly wasn’t helping anything.

When he arrived, though, the butler refused him admittance. “Apologies, my lord,” the fellow said stiffly, “but no one’s to home.”

“Where might I find Lady Sarala, then?”

“Lady
Sarah
has gone to breakfast with Lady Hanover and several others.”

The degree of disappointment he felt at missing her startled Shay. For something he hadn’t even planned, its importance seemed both ridiculous and very…illogical. He cleared his throat as the butler continued to gaze at him. “Perhaps you might answer a question for me, then,” he went on.

“I shall endeavor.”

“Has anything…odd occurred here over the past few days?”

“Odd, my lord?”

“Broken windows, strangers calling, anything like that?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Shay nodded, backing away from the door. “Very good, then. There’s, ah, been a rash of burglaries. I just wanted to be sure that the Carlisles remained secure.”

“I’d like to see someone try to break in here, m’lord,” the butler returned, his Cockney accent creeping into his speech. “I’d show ’em what for.”

“Glad to hear it. Thank you.”

That was something, he supposed, though it didn’t say much for him if he was now racing about Town in a panic because a sea captain had gone on a drunk somewhere. Yes, he’d clearly lost his mind.

When he returned to Griffin House, Sebastian had left for Parliament, and Peep waited on the bottommost stair step for him. “I’m going to make some drawings,” she announced, hefting a large sketch pad. “I borrowed this from Aunt Caroline.”

“That’s a good idea, Peep,” he returned, ushering her out the front door as Tollins brought the curricle around. “You can document the position of the suspicious mummy.”

“Exactly. Amelia Harper is feather-headed, and I am going to prove it. Mummies can’t move.”

Inside the British Museum, Penelope led the way directly to the Egyptian rooms, Charlemagne in her wake. There were several new pieces to the exhibit, and he was rather grateful for the distraction.

“Uncle Shay, may I borrow your walking cane?”

He started to hand it over, then stopped. “Why, may I ask?”

“I would like to poke that mummy.”

Charlemagne swallowed his grin as best he could. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Peep. If it helps, I can give you my personal assurance that the fellow is deceased.”

“I know that,” she said impatiently, circling the sarcophagus. “I want to see if his head moves.”

At that moment one of the curators strolled into the room. “Ah. Perhaps we might ask an authority,” Charlemagne suggested.

Peep held up her small hand to stop him from moving. “I will do it. This is my investigation. You wait here.”

“Of course, my lady.”

The museum employee was clearly thrilled to be of service to a member of the Griffin family, even a seven-yearold one.

Once Peep and the curator were deep in conversation, Charlemagne smiled again and strolled over to read the wall plaque halfway down the length of the room. Someone had collected part of the inner wall of a tomb and turned it over to the museum. For a long moment he stood looking at the yellow and red and black hieroglyphics. “Amazing,” he muttered, leaning in to look more closely. He had a tablet of similar writing himself, displayed in the drawing room of Gaston House. The colors of this one, though, were exceptional.

A shadow slipped across the edge of his vision and behind a huge granite bust of Amenhotep. Charlemagne took a quick glance to see Peep leaning over the rim of the sarcophagus while the curator pointed something out to her. The museum wasn’t terribly crowded, but there were a handful of other people roaming the catacomb of rooms and hallways. This, though, felt different.

Obviously he couldn’t leave Penelope behind in the room, and he didn’t want to begin some sort of crazed shadow chase through the museum with her in tow. Taking a breath and testing his grip on his cane, he turned and made directly for the statue.

Nothing. Slowly he circled its considerable girth, just to be certain. Only a dozen other visitors were in the room, none of them viewing the likeness of Amenhotep with him at the moment. “Damnation,” he muttered. “You’re going mad, you know.”

He turned back—and then he saw the shadow.

The man stood at the far end of the hall, watching him. Medium height, lean build, and long black hair braided into a tail over one shoulder, he was as clearly a warrior as if he wore armor rather than a loose shirt and pants, clearly designed with ease of movement in mind. The fellow was foreign—Chinese, unless Charlemagne was greatly mistaken—and after a long moment spent looking at each other the man bowed and then vanished around the corner.

Charlemagne’s first instinct was to go after him. In the next second he realized that it was probably a trap, either for him or to separate him from his niece. Which meant first that he couldn’t follow, and second that he and Peep needed to get out of the museum before anyone attempted something more serious than lures.

“Peep,” he called, making a show of pulling out his pocket watch.

“I haven’t drawn anything yet,” she returned from her seat on the bench against the wall.

He returned to her side. “Did the curator explain the lack of movement of mummies to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, he did. I would still like some illustrations, though, so I can show them to Amelia Harper when I prove that she’s dim-witted.”

“I would suggest a bit more diplomacy than that,” he said, taking her sketch pad under his arm and her hand in his. “I have a very well-illustrated book on mummies. You may have it, if you wish.”

“May I cut out the pictures?”

Inwardly gritting his teeth, he nodded. “It’s for a good cause.” And it would get her out of what had become a considerably less friendly place.

On the way back to Griffin House he took the time to run through several possible scenarios. A Chinese warrior and Blink’s disappearance—if they were related, then one more piece instantly fell into that equation: the Chinese silks. And the Chinaman had apparently followed him, and intentionally. That meant that at least someone thought
he
had the silks, which was good. It meant Sarala was safe and out of this particular arithmetic problem, at least for now. Apparently he wasn’t the only one to think that women didn’t engage in business.

One thing was for certain, though; the next time he saw a shadow, he was going to hunt it down.

“Half past noon,” the duke answered without checking. “Friday, in case you’ve lost track of that, as well.”

He felt like he had. Since the return from the museum yesterday he’d been going nonstop—tracking down everyone he knew who’d done business with Blink, reading up on his histories of China, pulling in favors from the government to learn which foreign diplomats were currently in London, and trying to determine once and for all whether any of this nonsense was connected or not.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t home last evening,” Sebastian continued, motioning him toward the stairs. “What did you find out about Blink?”

“Not much.” Shay stopped at the foot of the stairs,declining to follow his brother up. “I need to go see someone.” He hadn’t seen Sarala in longer than he’d seen Sebastian, and she needed to know that something odd seemed to be going on. Aside from that, he hadn’t had a good argument in nearly two days. He missed her.

“Anyone in particular?”

“No.”

“You’re courting her, aren’t you?”

Charlemagne nearly fell on his face. “What? Who?” he sputtered, facing Melbourne.

“Don’t dissemble, Shay. You think we don’t all know? Why do you think we’ve been making the effort of becoming acquainted with the family?”

“
What?
” Abruptly several things made sense. God, he’d been an idiot. A distracted, soft-headed, idiot. “For God’s sake, she—she’s not—I’m not—” He drew a breath, trying to chart a course clear of this mess without looking like a complete muggins. “Sarala…she bought the silks from Blink, right out from under me. I’ve been trying to acquire them back from her.”

Melbourne opened and closed his mouth several times. Charlemagne realized he’d never really seen his brother truly surprised—until this moment. “You’re doing business with her,” Sebastian said flatly.

“I’ve been attempting to. She’s a good negotiator.”

The duke shook his head. “This does not make any sense. I’ve been open-minded, stayed out of matters, and you—”

“Now just a minute. What matters have you been staying out of, Seb? What’s going—”

The front window shattered.

Sebastian on his heels, Charlemagne thundered into the blue room, grabbing one of the old Griffin family swords off the wall as he went. Nothing.

No, not nothing, he amended a heartbeat later, taking in the small bundle resting against the leg of a chair. “There,” he said, moving forward to grab it while his brother barked some order that had Tom the footman standing at the open front door with a musket in his hands.

“What is it?” Melbourne asked, moving to his side.

Shay hefted it. “A rock. It’s wrapped in…silk.” A very fine quality silk. The cold that had been burrowing into his chest since he’d read the newspaper yesterday stopped his heart. “Christ. I have to go.”

“Go where?” Sebastian demanded as Charlemagne thrust the rock at him and headed out the door.

“To see Sarala.”

“You are not going out alone.”

“I can take care of myself. And I need to finalize my purchase before someone realizes that it’s not me who owns the silks.”

“Shay! If it’s just business, then why—”

He could finish the question himself, Charlemagne realized, as he ran toward the stable. Why put himself in danger over a business deal when it had been yanked out from under him in the first place? And he knew the answer, as well. Sarala wasn’t simply a business rival. He wasn’t quite certain what she was, but he had no intention of allowing her to remain in a position that could potentially be very dangerous.

The wrapped rock message needed to be answered, as well, but before he could deal with that, he needed to put himself in the position of being the one they would have to deal with, and he needed to minimize the danger to Sarala and his family. He could stay at Gaston House until they settled matters.

His mind continued to race as a groom brought Jaunty up. He swung into the saddle and goaded the chestnut down the front drive. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Melbourne come out to the front portico, but he otherwise ignored his brother. Whatever mess he’d caused between the Griffins and the Carlisles, it would have to wait.

The streets of Mayfair thronged with vendors and pedestrians and servants collecting vegetables and milk for the day. With a scowl at the congestion he turned Jaunty into an alleyway—and stopped as for the second time the shadow materialized in front of him.

This time the Chinese warrior carried a long, curved, and very sharp-looking saber in his hands.

Charlemagne quickly dismounted. In the same motion he pulled his pistol from his greatcoat pocket and cocked it. “I don’t doubt your proficiency with your weapon,” he said coolly, shifting toward the nearest wall so no one could come up behind him, “and I suggest you accept my proficiency with mine.”

“Then perhaps we will talk,” the swordsman said in excellent, if heavily accented, English.

“You’re not the one I saw yesterday at the museum.”

“No. That was him.” He gestured toward the rooftop opposite Charlemagne. Another man, dressed and armed as the first, crouched in the shadow of a brick chimney and watched them.

Wonderful. Outmaneuvered and outnumbered, but at least if they were here then they weren’t assaulting Sarala yet. “You’re the reason Captain Blink disappeared as well, I presume? And which of you followed me the other night?”

“Yes, and all of us.” A third swordsman appeared from the alley entranceway as the first one spoke again.

“Might I ask why?” Charlemagne considered the major flaw of his character to be his lamentably short temper. He’d worked at curbing it and improving his patience, but there were occasions when an eager willingness to pummel someone could be helpful. After the rather blatant clue of the silk-covered rock, he considered this to be one of those occasions.

“You stole from us. From China.”

“I’ve stolen nothing.”

“Emperor Jiaqing says differently. His Eminence wants his property returned and the insult avenged.”

“Avenged? Against Blink?”

“He stole property. Property then purchased by you.
You
have insulted the emperor.”

“You’re talking about the silks.”

The first swordsman inclined his head. “They were commissioned specifically for the birthday celebration of Emperor Jiaqing. They must be back in China by that time. You will return His Eminence’s stolen property, and you will present yourself to him to be dealt with according to his wisdom. As will your captain.”

“He’s not
my
captain.” They were starting to shift toward him, and he aimed the pistol squarely at the one blocking his path. “If you want the silks back, you will deal with me, gentleman to gentleman. I will meet you tomorrow at noon, at the museum. The same place I saw you yesterday.”

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would gain him a day, and a meeting in a public place.

The swordsman gave an elegant, one-shouldered shrug. “Do not lose your courage, as your captain did. If you do, we will hunt you down as we did him.”

“My courage is my own concern,” Charlemagne said flatly. “But I will be there tomorrow. Will you?” The one on the roof would have to make it past Jaunty below. The shot would have to be to the first swordsman, then the butt of the pistol against the one behind him. It was a longshot, but he was willing.

The first one bowed. “We will be there.” He said something in Chinese and abruptly all three of them vanished back into the shadows again.

Charlemagne took a deep breath, slowly released the pistol’s hammer, and returned the weapon to his pocket. Jaunty stood nervously on the opposite side of the alley, and he spent a moment calming the chestnut before he swung back into the saddle. Sarala. He needed to reach Sarala.